


Character Sketches

by Songofpsalms297



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Character studies, Gen, Other
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-31
Updated: 2017-10-31
Packaged: 2019-01-27 12:06:28
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 992
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12581536
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Songofpsalms297/pseuds/Songofpsalms297
Summary: Just some bits from my tired brain. Should be fairly simple to determine which paragraphs belong to what character.





	Character Sketches

  1. The longer I am here the more glaring my lack of place. I am ignored, pitied, shelved. I should feel guilt for the lies- but I don’t. I will accomplish my objectives. If anyone of these shems had the smallest desire for wisdom, but no. They are ignorant, and shall remain so. I would be their willing guide, but I am ignored. Spoken with only when convenient or necessary. Ma nuvienen. I am more than the tourniquet which keeps the breach magic at bay.   
To see one of these ignorant children play at wisdom. The elvhen have fallen so far during my period of Uthenera. To see an elvhen child elevated to a place of power over the ignorant masses, proud of her “Dalish” heritage, spouting ridiculous nonsense about “history”, it infuriates me far more than if any other race. Except, perhaps one of those piteous children born to those alienages. Born to dust, ignorance, pain, and death, the cycle again repeats, generation to generation, no change at all.

  2. The snick of the quarrel as it settles into place calms those pre-battle nerves like nothing else. Well, calms isn’t quite the right word, I’ll have to think of a better one for when I record the story later. Shifts my focus, settles my stance, especially when I am the one holding a work of wicked art. The ratcheting of her gears is expected, the grind of something off sets my teeth on edge – like nothing else can. My hackles rise, and remain so until I can take my beautiful lady apart and tend to her care.

  3. Ringing steel is deafening, and impact momentarily makes me numb. The hordes take advantage of my momentary distraction and press closer in. And I must firm up my stance. If I fall, who will protect them?nQuick seconds to focus, ability born of experience in battle, set. I raise my sword and engage the nearest comer. My weapon is an extension of my body. I no longer need to remember my training exercises. The dance of my weapon. I can flow from the fiercest of the fighting to an unguarded comrade. Sheathing my sword through my enemy’s heart. All who dare attack my family are my enemy. I insert my sword or shield in the path of the enemy’s attack, deflecting it. Protecting my family, unnoticed, while they are unaware of the danger. There is my place. To guard and shield my loved ones while being unnoticed, unremarked. This is how it should be. Sometimes the stories come out around the campfire at night, or during other quieter times. I stand guard to defend, and protect. I press the sword point to the enemy’s weakest points. This is what I was created for.

  4. Touching, dreaming, calling, aching. What is this? No, not that. Peeling, sorting, coaxing away the detritus, separating the layers, reaching for the hurt. A touch. Tugging the string, a tight, small memory pulls free. With it, the hurt that poisons, not a thing, unnamed but numbered. Not wrong. Different.  
Tasting other labels. Not liar, that one is sour. Spymaster. Guardian. Protector. Yes. These taste like hot chocolate and guimauves, and soft silk bindings.   
Everywhere I look there are violent explosions of anger, firing, I duck the barrage of furious, rejection tipped questions. Wounded as they wound. Thoughts, accusations tear at my hair, clothes, ripping at the patchwork me. Until I am bereft.  
“Why didn’t you tell us? Why didn’t you spill his secrets? We had the right to know what he was planning! We had the right to prepare for his betrayal!” Cornered I retaliate, hating to hurt, but sometimes, the hurting heals. “What about your dark place? The one I touched, and you begged, bartered, demanded I keep locked away from all? How are your requests for sanctuary any different from another’s’ request, plea, inquiry? You are just as afraid your secrets will diminish you before your comrades, friends, and family. Shall I yell your secrets to the sky too? Whose secrets should be kept and whose revealed? What of your secret burning need for vengeance, for that wound you sustained when you were younger, that plan you fantasize? That could cause other pain too. Shall I reveal your deepest pain? Your still bleeding scars? What of you?”  
They always look haunted, breaths coming fast as if they are being hunted, haunted. And we never move from my secret place above the tavern. They splutter, self and righteous anger. Momentarily overwhelmed by self-preservation. I can see the fire, but, for most, it goes out. Grudging understanding, a drip of something that might become compassion. One day.

  5. Smooth wooden haft. Wood shaping itself to in my hands. Flowing, forming, taking shape, like water. It is not my will to wield the wood. I obey the wood. I do not force. I release. I do not bend, I merely free the item trapped within the wood. Each piece to attain its best future dream. The dreams of the wood, taking physical form. I obey the wishes of each piece of wood. I am merely its happy servant.

  6. The thrum of magic under the skin comes alive like a pulsating sound. It is a low, deep pressure, once awakened, never sleeps. We can sense its presence, hear its call. Mages never need identify themselves to one another. We know. No one “passes” for a mage around another mage. We always know. Though some mages try to pass as anything else. The ones who pass longest are only able to do so in remote places. This is why most hedge witches are found in rural backcountry places with no real Chantry presence. This is also why there are no hedge witches in cities or villages that can host a Chanter’s board. Magic is always reaching out, like a live thing, questing for other magic. We are drawn together, magic binds us together, and drives us apart.

 





End file.
